Charles Walsh: Lennie Gilbert: The guy in the bow tie

Published 4:43 pm, Friday, April 5, 2013

The first time I entered Lennie Gilbert's office to see about a job I had a bad case of buck fever.

It was the spring of 1964, if memory serves, and as a college student with loans and a bar bill, I really needed a job. Gilbert, who died recently at age 99, worked at the Post for 50 years (safe prediction: that will never ever happen again.) By the 1960s, he was managing editor, the top guy, ruling over both the afternoon Bridgeport Post and morning Telegram newspapers. I had been told by my compatriots in the journalism curriculum that he was the man I had to see if I wanted a job as a reporter.

So I was quaking when I stepped out of the elevator on the third floor of the Post building. It had not helped that the elevator operator, an older fellow who looked like an ex-prizefighter, told me we were having "craaazy weather, craaazy weather." What did he mean? Was this some kind of omen?

At that time the entire newsroom, at least the parts that were not coated in a half century of black grit, was painted a sickly, two-tone green and cream colors (cream on top) that did not help settle my butterflies. Gilbert's office, more of a super-sized cubicle, was in the far corner. It had no door. I knocked gently on translucent glass. Gilbert was at his desk, hunched over some papers.

"Oh, Walsh," he said, "Come in. I'm almost finished with these proofs." He was a smallish man with light air, wearing a sleeveless sweater and a lopsided bow tie. For some reason he reminded me of the actor Claude Rains. I prayed he wouldn't ask to see my exit visa.

"So," he said looking after up, "you want to work on the obituary desk. Can you type?"

I thought briefly about correcting him that I wanted to be a reporter not an obit writer, but could not get the words out. "Yes," I said, opting for the truth, "but I'm pretty slow."

"That's not a problem," he said, "The funeral home people talk very slowly. You can start tomorrow, six to midnight. See Mr. Donlon on the county desk. Nice meeting you. Goodbye."

As I headed triumphantly toward the elevator Gilbert called to me. "One more thing, Walsh."

"Yes, Mr. Gilbert."

"What do you know about unions?"

"Not much," I called back.

"Good," he said, "See that it stays that way."

That was it: the start of my career as a full-time journalist.

Sixteen years later I was again in Lennie Gilbert's office looking for a job. Out of work for three months, I was even more desperate than the first time. By then I had a wife, and three growing daughters who no matter how hard I tried would not see the character-building advantages of starvation. This time, however, I had a plan.

"Mr. Gilbert," I said confidently, sitting in what seemed like the same chair as the fist interview. "I want to be the Post's first consumer reporter."

Gilbert peered over his glasses and gave a sympathetic smile. "Gee, I don't know. We don't do much specialty reporting here. Everybody kind of does everything. But I might be able to put you on as a copy editor."

Deeply offended at being asked to compromise my manifest destiny, I turned him down. Flat.

As I got up to leave I noted a "gee-I'm-sorry-you-feel-that-way" look on Gilbert's face. I was sure he'd call me that night to ask forgiveness and agree to my fabulous plan to put the Post on the consumer journalism map. He did not.

Some time and a few food stamp books later I was back in Gilbert's office. This time I was thrilled to accept a copy editor's job on the morning Telegram. Gilbert was not a hard-feelings kind of guy. A nice man, too.

Lennie Gilbert retired and moved to Florida a year after I started at the Telegram. One day in the late 1980s, I think, he dropped by the office to "see the old gang." A lot had happened by then. A lot of the old gang was gone. The new reporters and editors had no idea who this old guy in a bow tie was. I and a few others did know and did out best to make him welcome. I don't know how good a job we did, but that was the last time I ever saw the sweet Lennie Gilbert.